SJ: Mama, don't move my party.
Me: Okay, I won't.
SJ: Don't move my party. It's MY party. Not YOUR party.
Me: Gotcha.
I had no idea what he was talking about; I had been gone all day and sometimes his line between dreams, reality and what happened on Sesame Street are somewhat blurred. Or maybe it was some line from a song he had heard while dancing with Gregg; when I came home on Saturday afternoon, it was to the sounds of Gregg downstairs singing "Lucky Star" with Madonna, broken up by his shouts of "DANCE, SHAWN JOAQUIN, DANCE!" and finger snapping. When he began to sing along with Kylie Minogue, I had to put a stop to it. But there were many hours before that, no doubt filled with the Backstreet Boys, Janet Jackson and Cindi Lauper. And Shawn Joaquin had later said to me "get up now...get on up...GET UP now...GET ON UP!"
As I settled in on the sofa, my foot brushed something on the floor. Kneeling down, I found the party.
I wonder if super heroes drink their coffee black, or with just a splash of bad ass and spoonful of don't-make-me-put-the-hurt-on-you. I'll have to ask the host tomorrow.
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